


The Beast of Gévaudan

by eclecticanarchist



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Witches, French Folklore, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Beta Read, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-06 02:16:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15184559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclecticanarchist/pseuds/eclecticanarchist
Summary: Grantaire is cursed to turn into a beast every month on the full moon, but the transformations become more irregular, and his body count rises, forcing the villagers to call in a team of expert hunters to fend off the savage attacks. That team just so happens to be Les Amis.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me I just really like werewolf! Grantaire

“Aire wake up.” Grantaire groaned, shifting onto his other side and away from the source of the persistently bright light. And noise. “You have to get up, now.”

“Aire you have to get cleaned up,” came Eponine’s annoyed voice. Straw prickled at his skin, and something uncomfortably sticky clung to his chest. He paused. Straw. No shirt. No shirt lying in straw. He jerked upright, his curls bouncing wildly. He’s long past being self-conscious around Eponine, so the reaction was more a reaction to finding himself covered in straw. For the second time this month. 

“God damn it,” he concluded, looking down at himself. To his dismay, not only was he not wearing a shirt, but he wasn’t wearing clothing of any kind and the stickiness on his chest was definitely blood, turned tacky and thick by the heat. He sniffed at it and that was worse because that confirmed his suspicions. It was undeniably human.

“You are three seconds away from having this bucket poured over your head,” Eponine growled, hefting the bucket in her grip. He sighed as she set it down, before quickly setting about washing off the evidence of his crimes before someone walked by and saw him. They were in his usual post-transformation spot, an unused horse barn a little way out of town, but knowing Grantaire’s luck, someone would walk by at the least convenient time. Like when he was covered in human blood, for instance.

“Who was it this time?” he asked, his voice sounding weary and rough. This was always the worst part about the curse, finding out who he’d hurt. Which of his friends and neighbors he’d ripped limb from limb in a bloodthirsty frenzy. 

“The lawman’s father,” Eponine replied, offering a rag to scrub at his face. Grantaire grunted. He didn’t know the man personally but his son Bossuet was a close personal friend. Not that he would still be if Grantaire was ever exposed for the beast he was, but the guilt was always worse when Grantaire had a personal connection to his victims.

“Javert isn’t happy,” Eponine continued, “Aire, its getting worse. The killings are getting closer together, and I overheard Javert talking to Madame Mabeuf about bringing in specialized hunters.”

“Damn it, I know its getting worse, but I don’t know what to do.” Grantaire flung the rag down. “I know it's happening more often but I can’t control it. I’ve never been able to control it.” He cast around for clothes, pulling a soft green shirt from where it was piled with a pair of pants. There was straw sticking to it, and it was dotted with water, but he felt more secure already having it on.

Eponine looked at him, face set and hard. She’d been with him since the beginning, since before the curse. She had his back no matter what, just like he had hers. But it wore on her. Seeing him afterwards, seeing him drown his guilt with drink after drink. 

“Maybe I should just turn myself in,” he said, dark eyes fixed on the barn floor. 

“They’d kill you, Aire. Even you can’t have that big of a death wish.”

“Shut it, you know I don’t have a surfeit of options right now. At least then it would be over, and I could go to sleep without worrying about having another man’s death on my hands.”

“No,” Eponine’s voice was low and taught with something close to fear. “They wouldn’t make it clean. They’d burn you alive, make it last for hours and force the rest of us to watch. Is that what you want?” 

“And that’s better than being gunned down by hunters?” Grantaire snapped, “At least if they executed me I could die with something close to dignity. At least I’d know what was happening, and die in my right mind instead of like some animal.” 

The word hung between them, suspended in the air between them. He was running out of options and they both knew it. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Grantaire started again, softer this time. “I love Gévaudan. I grew up here. I want to die here, not on the run, hunted.”

“I’m scared, Aire, for both of us.” Grantaire nodded and the two fell silent. He was scared too, but there was nothing he could do. 

For the next three months they tried everything they could think of to keep him restrained at night, on the off chance that he’d transform. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. The attacks became weekly occurrences. The villagers walked about in fear as soon as night’s hint shadowed the valley. Then, after three months, the hunters arrived. 

\- - -

The whole town gathered to see the hunters ride into town and Grantaire was no exception. The were fresh from a successful kill, and tales of their victory had already reached the good people of Gévaudan. They were renowned for their skill and efficiency, and more than that, their discretion. If you had an animal problem, you called Les Amis de l’ABC. And if gossip was to be believed, you also called Les Amis if you had a problem with something not quite human but not quite animal either.

Grantaire tracked their movement with the cautious interest of self preservation. That way he could get a feel for his hunters before he even became the hunted. Eponine knew more about them, had some tie to them through her friend Marius, and was always ready to pass along bits of less-than-savory gossip that didn’t make it into the usual rumor mills. Apparently the group’s leader had a reputation for viciousness in battle that bordered on brutality. Apparently they’d never had an unsuccessful hunt. And now, apparently, they were here to hunt Grantaire.  
The group was made up of four men, the leader, the trapper, the medic, and the guide. The trapper was an expert in the ways of the woods and the animals that lived there, the guide was a local who knew the mountains of France like the back of his hand, the leader kept them in check, and the medic kept them all alive. All were French, all were young, and all ruthlessly good at what they did.

Grantaire could see it even in the way they rode, the polished leather of their saddles echoing the shining barrels of the muskets hanging at their sides. One of the men, who wore his long copper hair tied back in a que had a bow and arrow slung over his shoulder. A curly haired brunette offered a brightly shining smile to the assembled crowd. Another man, resplendent in a red hunting coat was looking around the crowd with vague disapproval. The final man, taller and darker than the other three concluded their party.

Grantaire watched from the shadows of a neighboring building. The size of the crowd was unnerving to be sure, especially because it would tip off any less reputable characters of the town that there was new game in town. From the look of the man in red, this line of thought seemed shared. He was their leader, no doubt about it, everything from the angle of his jaw to the furrow of his brow shouted ‘command’ to Grantaire’s eye.

As soon as the hunting party reached the inn, the crowd began to drift away, unfurling in twos and threes as people went about their morning errands. Grantaire hung back in his alleyway, watching as the strangers dismounted, their golden leader marched toward the inn, followed shortly by tall dark and handsome. The two remaining men saw to the horses, easily chatting and laughing back and forth. 

If Grantaire were a more cunning man, he would go up to them now, introduce himself under guise of helping with their horses and ingratiate himself with them early on. Better to know one’s enemies and all that. But that wasn’t his way. Yes he’d rather know when and how his killers would act, but there was no sense putting himself in their path before time led them to his.

Grantaire turned from his lookout post resolutely. If he had to be killed by these men, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Let them earn their coin through actual work and let him enjoy a few more days of his sorry life. He was going to go out with a bang, but not before he let told those he cared about the truth. Then, maybe, he could regain some dignity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets the hunters face to face!

He was halfway through his first drink when Eponine sidled up to the table he occupied. She raised an eyebrow, setting down a bottle and a second glass to join his. There were few other patrons in the tavern at this hour, just an older farmer picking over his plate of stew. Grantaire had been sketching him, tracing the rough lines of his form onto a leaf from his sketchbook when Eponine interrupted him by clearing her throat. 

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to leave town?” she asked, her eyebrows coming together. 

“Absolutely, it would only be a matter of time before they found me. Besides,” he looked away from her penetrating gaze, “I have blood on my hands. I have to atone for it somehow.”

“You’re really set on this?” she asked, a cross between resignation and understanding shading her face. Grantaire nodded solemnly. It was how it must be. Eponine shook her head slowly, then a wry smile lit her face. She lifted her glass in a toast, “To the rest of your life, then.”

“To the rest of my life,” he echoed. The pair had just clinked glasses and taken their sips when the doors of the tavern were flung wide to admit the four hunters. Grantaire’s hand jerked, slamming his glass down with a little bit too much force. He shot a look at Eponine, who replied by rolling her eyes in exasperation. So much for staying out of their path.

At the noise, one man turned looked in Grantaire’s direction. He was as slight as a bird, with thick red locks coiling down his back in a simple plait. He offered Grantaire a tentative smile, which Grantaire returned, lifting his glass in salute. The redhead dug an elbow into the ribs of the curly haired man standing next to him, and suddenly both were looking their way.

“What are you doing,” Eponine groaned, “Aire, You idiot.”

“Relax, I’m being friendly,” Grantaire replied, “They’re not going to come over here.” Just as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the pair broke turned away from their compatriots and started heading towards Grantaire’s table. He let out a low string of curses, watching their progress across the room in his periphery. Eponine stomped her well-shod heel down onto his toes, crossing her arms across her chest.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him plainly, her mouth set in a frown. He had to agree with her. 

“Hello! May we sit? We’re newly arrived in town and would dearly love some gossip, if you’ve any to share,” the redhead said voice soft and lilting. They’d garnered the attention of the blond man still at the bar, who turned to regard the interaction with their friends with a pensive frown. He looked ethereal in the flickering light of the tavern lamps, lights bouncing off the gold of his hair and accenting the high points of his cheekbones.

“Of course, please sit,” Grantaire replied with an easy smile. He could feel Eponine’s glower from across the table and hoped it wasn’t too obvious to their guests. “My name is Grantaire and this is the lovely mademoiselle Eponine Thenardier.” 

“A pleasure to meet you,” the redhead’s companion dipped his head in a short bow to Eponine and then straightened with a flourish. His gestures as fine as any lord, and from the expensive cut and fabric of his clothes that might not be too far off the mark. “My name is Courfeyrac, and my friend here is Jean.”

“But please, call me Jehan, all of my friends do,” Jehan finished, smiling brightly as he took the seat nearest Eponine. Grantaire smiled in return, lifting his glass to his lips. Jehan was a funny thing, his hazel eyes fixing on a point to the left of Grantaire’s head as he spoke, rather than locking gazes with him. He was dressed more plainly than as his friend Courfeyrac, his outfit a faded motley of greens purples and browns. 

“So,” Grantaire broached, “what brings you to town? I’ll admit that I watched you four ride into town this morning. Most of the travellers passing through are not quite as well armed as you fellows appear to be.” 

“And what is it to you if we are better equipped than most?” snapped a new voice. It was the blond and by God he was even more glorious up close. His hair was tied back by a thick black ribbon, the queue cascading over one shoulder. He wore sensible clothes for travelling, high boots and comfortable breeches, but there was a disconnect between their austerity and the rich red of his coat. 

“Enjolras, he was just being curious,” Jehan interjected, “He has a right to know why we’re here.”

“The Inspector advised caution,” Enjolras bit back, blue eyes sparking. “After all, we don’t know who might be guilty.” If only you knew who you are talking to, Grantaire thought with a sigh. He rested an arm against the table, propping his chin upon it, looking up at the leader in red. 

“We’re hunters,” Courfeyrac volunteered, “You might have heard about the recent deaths in and around the town?”

“Yes, I’ve heard about them,” Grantaire looked down. “One of the men is the father of a friend of mine. He’s usually a cheerful man, my friend, but I’ve never seen him more somber than the day they found the body. Whatever is doing this deserves to be put down.”

He lifted his gaze to meet Eponine’s gaze levelly. She stared back, mouth set in a straight line, and it was he who looked away first, unable to stomach any more of the raw emotion in his friend’s eyes. He turned back to their guests with a sad smile.

“That’s the general sentiment in the town,” he said. “People are heartsick and weary of the heavy toll its taken on our flocks. The sooner you bring this beast down the better.”

“Beast?” It is the fourth man, who had been silent until now. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black, hidden behind thick round glasses. “Wolves are common in these parts, are they not? Surely you’ve seen these types of attacks before?”

“Never like this,” Eponine muttered, before finishing her glass in one heavy gulp. Neither of them said another word, and the hunters didn’t press for more information. Instead, Courfeyrac directed the conversation towards easier things, like the lay of the town and the weather. Grantaire offered to show them around the following day, and he readily accepted. The rest of the night passed without incident, despite Enjolras’ stony attitude. By the end of the night, Grantaire realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that his hunters were likable, and worse, that he actually liked them.

\- - -

The hunters had been in town a week before Grantaire felt the nauseous, writhing feeling in his gut that signalled a change was coming. Already, he was irritable and his skin felt scratchy and too small. From the moment he woke up, he felt dread sitting over him as heavy as a cloud. 

Eponine took one look at him that morning and knew. She knew it would happen tonight, and that both of them were helpless to stop it. 

“What are we going to do?” she asked. They were sitting by the hearth of Grantaire’s home, looking into the banked flames flickering against soot-smeared bricks. They clutched tea cups in their hands, but the tea had long gone cold and bitter. A fitting last meal, Grantaire thought. It was almost dark out. Grantaire knew it wouldn’t be long until he had to leave, seek out the woods and pray that no one got hurt. 

“You’re going to stay in here,” he told her. “Please. The walls are thicker and the door sturdier than your parents’ place. Get Gavroche and Azelma and lock yourselves in here. Don’t open the door until morning. There’s food in the cellar.” Eponine nodded silently, and Grantaire knew then how worried his friend really was. No caustic remark, no jab or insult, just silent acceptance of his words. He set his teacup down, laid his hand over hers.

“It’ll be alright,” he said. She didn’t look at him, just tightened her hand around his. 

“Promise me you’ll come back to us. In the morning. Promise me you’ll be okay.”

“I can’t-” he started, pain blossoming in his heart.

“I didn't ask you to tell the truth. Just tell me you’ll be okay.”

“Its okay, Eponine, its going to be okay.”

\- - -

The next morning he woke up. The first thing he registered was surprise, followed by a slick spike of fear. He was naked, as always, huddled by the roots of a tree. More trees surrounded him, their boughs casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. The second thing he noticed was the splatter of blood across his hands, soaking his forearms and chin. He gagged at the metallic taste of someone else’s blood soaking the inside of his mouth.

He was alive, even if someone else wasn’t.

By the time he’d found a stream to wash off, and one of the stashes of clothing he kept hidden about the wood, it was nearly midday. The sun was high, casting its rays down toward him, completely at odds with his dark mood. The birds chirping merrily in the trees didn’t help either. He trudged his way wearily back to the village, heart heavy with foreboding as he saw the clusters of people huddled together in the main square.

When he saw the trail of blood he stopped dead in his tracks. It led right to his own home, where the front door stood ajar, knocked askew by heavy claws and sharp teeth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of last night's transformation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of you comments! I treasure them! I'm glad that people are as excited by this as I am!

Grantaire fell into a jog, then a run, tumbling down to his knees as soon as he passed the gaping entryway to his house. The inside was ripped apart; his humble cottage looked like it had been hit by a whirlwind. A very angry whirlwind with teeth and claws. His bed was tossed halfway across the room, ashes from the fireplace was scattered everywhere, his broom lie broken in three places, and it seemed like every piece of furniture bore some mark of the beast he had become. 

What was worse than the material wreckage was the blood. It smeared thickly across the ground in one corner of the cottage and painted the jointure of the walls. It was partially dry now, dark red and sticky and overwhelming in quantity. Eponine wasn’t there. Neither were her brother or sister, just that sinister stain in the corner.

“Grantaire!” called a voice from doorway, fresh with distress. It was Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet’s mistress. She was out of breath, her ample chest heaving as she gasped in air. “Grantaire its alright, its not what it looks like, they’re okay. Joly is looking after them now.”

“They’re okay?” Sudden relief burst over him like a tidal wave. He hadn’t killed his best friend. He hadn’t killed his best friend. He hadn’t killed - Joly? “Why is Joly looking after them,?”

“She’s going to be alright, but Eponine was bitten, badly,” Chetta explained, coming into his house and helping him to his feet. “She’s weak, and has lost a lot of blood, but she is going to be alright.” Thank God for that. 

“And Gavroche? Azelma?” Musichetta did not question Grantaire’s speed as he practically raced toward the Joly’s office. As the only doctor in the area, he was afforded a large house towards the center of town, with the first floor serving as his office and operating room, and the upper stories for habitation.

“Both unharmed. Bossuet is with them now,” Musichetta responded, tucking a strand of curly hair back underneath her scarf. “Eponine took the blow meant for them before running the beast off with a broom.” That explained the broken broom, and the aches in his ribs, jarred by his sudden movement.

Grantaire didn’t even pause as he pushed open the door, shoving it aside to admit them both into the well light room. Eponine sat on a high bench in only a pair of breeches and a breast band. Joly stood beside her, wrapping a length of linen securely about her shoulder. The dressing was already soaked through with blood. 

Both of patient and doctor looked up at their entrance, Eponine attempting to stand only to be pushed down firmly by Joly. Instead, Grantaire rushed to her, gathering her up and squeezing her as tight as he dared. She returned to the embrace, burying her face in his shirt as she clung to him fiercely. He felt more than heard Joly stepping away from them and joining Musichetta across the room.

“I thought you were gone,” Grantaire whispered against her shoulder, tears pricking at his eyes. “I thought it’d killed you. I thought you were gone and it was my fault.” 

“It didn’t. You didn’t,” she murmured back resting her forehead to his. “I’m going to be okay. You just nipped my shoulder a bit, I’ll be fine.”

“But what does this mean, for both of us, if I bit you? Won’t you-”

The door never fully closed after Grantaire and Musichetta came in, but if it is possible for an open door to be flung further open, the hunters did just that. Enjolras came blazing into the room, radiating righteous fury. Behind him rushed Courfeyrac and Combeferre, looking more concerned than angry. Grantaire straightened, inching protectively in front of his friend. 

“Why weren’t we informed there was another attack?” Enjolras demanded, glaring around at the room’s occupants. “How are we supposed to take care of this beast, if no one thinks to tell us its been sighted? We are supposed to be the first line of defense, not some wench with a broom, and that is another thing, why on Heaven’s name would you approach that thing?”

“Stand down,” Grantaire hissed. During his speech Enjolras had pushed his way forward until he stood almost chest to chest with Grantaire. His gaze was focused past him to Eponine, who looked unperturbed by both his tirade and her own state of undress. “She’s injured, and you have no business speaking to her like that.”

“And who are you to tell me about my business?” snarled the blond man, burls bouncing in indignation. “You don’t know me past my name, and I have no wish to know you past yours.”

“You don’t get to barge in here with your demands and your highbrow insults. You’re new to this town, new to the way it works. Nobody gets anywhere by screeching at the injured.”

“He’s right Enjolras,” Combeferre interjected, hand coming to rest on Enjolras’ shoulder. “It is not them you should be angry at, they’re the victims.”

“She is, maybe. If I heard correctly they were attacked in his house and here he is without a scratch on him. That’s odd, don’t you think?” 

“There could be any number of reasons why -” Courfeyrac this time, coming up in front of Enjolras and placing himself not-so-surreptitiously between the two men. 

“I know why. He’s a drunk,” he met Grantaire’s eyes evenly, each word poised and ready to strike. “And all drunks are cowards. No doubt he ran at the first sign of trouble, leaving his lady friend behind.”

“I wasn’t home, I was visiting a friend,” Grantaire managed, through gritted teeth. His nails dug sharp crescents into his palms, and Eponine’s grip on his arm was vice like. “I’ll let your vivid imagination paint the in the sordid details.”

“My parents aren’t kind, Monsieur,” Eponine butted in, lifting her chin to stare down the blond, daring him to judge either of them. “Sometimes, when they get too rough, my siblings and I stay at Aire’s. Even if he’d found company elsewhere for the night.”

“Enjolras, really, this is enough, we should leave now,” Jehan’s gentle voice was like a soothing balm on the irate tension hanging in the air. “We’ll try to be there next time. Eponine, I’m glad you weren’t too badly hurt.”

“Thank you, Jehan,” she replied courteously. 

“At least someone in your little party has some sense, and some grasp of basic human decency,” Grantaire added, just to be petty. Enjolras huffed once, glaring deep into Grantaire’s eyes before turning on his heel and prowling out of the room. Courfeyrac bid Eponine a swift recovery, and followed his friend’s hasty retreat, joined by Jehan. Combeferre offered his services as a doctor, but Eponine assured him that she was more than fine in Joly’s capable hands. 

After the hunters had left, and Musichetta had shut the door with a resounding thud, Grantaire slumped into a nearby chair. It only now hit him that he was exhausted, both from the argument and his beastly side’s activities the night before.  
“Well, you two certainly are more exciting than most of my usual patients,” Joly chimed in, idly lifting the lid on a nearby pot. Grantaire snorted out a laugh.

“Yeah, you could say that.” 

\- - -

The day after Eponine’s attack saw the hunters talking strategy with Javert in the main square. Enjolras was arguing (surprise) and with a frowning Javert (another surprise), surrounded by a cohort of the town’s most important players. 

The day after that, there was whispers of construction in the marketplace, of several contraptions of some sort the hunters were building out in the fallow field past the sheep enclosure. They didn’t allow anyone close enough to get a good look at it, but from their job description, Grantaire could only assume it was something meant to maul or ensnare him. 

Over the next week, the mysterious construction continued as Eponine slowly regained mobility in her arm. Grantaire could only assume that, if she was also cursed, it would begin as his own curse had, restricted to the movements of the moon. If that was the case, she had two weeks until the full moon for them to figure out a plan of action. 

Grantaire was not so lucky. It was only six days after his last transformation that he felt that familiar prickling up his spine. And this time, that was all the warning he got.


	4. Chapter 4

He was in the middle of the town square, walking home from visiting Eponine in her convalescence at Joly’s when it happened. There was none of the gentle warnings, the nausea and headaches that usually preceded a change. There was only a sudden rush of adrenaline before the pain started creeping into his bones. He took off at a dead sprint toward the forest, trying to get as far away from people as fast as he could before he had a massacre on his conscience. 

Usually, he wasn’t aware of the change as anything but pain followed swiftly by lack of consciousness but this time, he felt it overtaking his body. He felt it shifting and cracking his bones, internal organs pressing and reconfiguring as he stumbled his way into the woods. He tripped and fell to his knees, breathing hard as the pain overtook him. This was worse than being unconscious, oh it was so much worse. 

He tried to scream as he finally blacked out, but the only sound that came out was a raw, throaty howl. 

\- - -

“There’s something over here,” a voice. Human. Smaller than me, and human. No good. Quick, run! Dip and dart away from the sounds, into the trees. 

Branches shattering past, more human voices howling out. A pack on the hunt, and I am the prey. Not right, humans aren’t hunters. I am not the hunted. Why am I running?

Stop, stand, turn and face the threat. They are small. Smaller than me. And human. I can take them. Take them all. I am not the hunted.

Loud! Something loud bangs past, throwing up a spray of dirt. Bullets, part of me knows. They’re shooting bullets from guns. And aiming at me. But I am not a deer? I am not the hunted.

Turn and Face! They are smaller. Stalk them, you are not the hunted. Belly low to the ground, through the underbrush. They’re still loud, yipping to each other frantically, like pups away from their dam. The smallest one is quiet though, hanging back from the others. They are first. 

A rustle. A crack of a twig underfoot. They are too loud, I can hear them trying to stalk me. Too loud, too late. I lunge for them, aiming for the gun clenched in their claws, pulling it down away.

A shout, another bang and I howl low in my throat. It was a trap, a trap! They got me, pain in my flank, a bullet? A bullet, they got me, the hunters got me. Anther shot follows, skimming the fur across my face.

Turning from my prey and I run, run run run far. Get away from them, I am the hunted. They got me then, but not forever if I get away first.

They’re shouting again, but suddenly the thump thump thump in my ears is all I hear. Back leg hurts but I push on. Must get away, find safety. Back leg goes out underneath me, sending me tumbling tail to snout. 

Then there’s no earth. I’m falling. Down, straight down. And crash, pain blooming in my sides. Spikes. Spikes on the ground and they hurt, one got my side, can’t get up. Please. The hole is tall, can’t get out no matter how much I scramble, can’t get out, can’t get away. Please help me. 

The men are still shouting, but farther away. They don’t know Where I am just that I am somewhere nearby. Something happens. Time passes, the air changes. The first rays of morning sun peek over the edge of the hole and —

All Grantaire feels is pain. For a single terrifying moment he doesn’t know where he is, why he is there but then last night's chase came filtering back, like a recollection of a dream. 

He’s lying on his back, one of the spikes lining the bear pit is buried in his side, sticking through the flesh of his abdomen. He isn’t dead yet so it must not have punctured anything vital but even the thought of moving makes him groan in pain. 

There’s a throbbing from his thigh that can only be a bullet wound. The rest of his body is just battered, angry bruises and livid scratches standing out against his pallid skin. He’s definitely lost blood. Too much, probably. He was definitely running out of time. If a desperate sob escaped his lips just then, there was no one around to judge him. 

“Ferre did you hear that?” Grantaire stiffened. He knew that voice, that soft, intense voice. Enjolras’ head suddenly popped over the edge over the hole. At that moment he appeared more angel than human, his golden curls a riot about his dirt smudged face. Now it was Enjolras’ turn to freeze. He stared down at Grantaire for a second before cursing eloquently and calling again for Combeferre. “It’s Grantaire, from the town, he’s hurt.”

“You’re here?” Grantaire asked, incredulous. Of course he would be the one to find him. Who else? He was the hunted after all, and Enjolras was the hunter. Now he found him he could kill him, put him out of his misery. And pain. All the pain. As the edges of his vision blurred, the last thing he saw was Combeferre lowering Enjolras down into the pit to finish him off. 

\- - -

He was somewhere soft, and someone was dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth. That was his first clue something wasn’t right. If there was an afterlife Grantaire had no illusions that he’d be somewhere pleasant, let alone somewhere where they cared about his health. Yet there was no hellfire, no smell of brimstone cutting the air. This place smelled like soap and pine. 

When he cracked open an eye to determine the identity of his nurse he saw Combeferre, face drawn in determination setting aside the cloth. 

“You’re awake,” Combeferre said, cocking his head to the side. “How’s the pain?”

Grantaire opened his mouth to reply but all that came out was a rough croak. Combeferre was quick to pour him a glass of water, holding it to his lips so he could drink. His arms, now that he considered them, were cuffed together in thick iron manacles. His feet were similarly bound, he could feel the metal pressing into his ankle bones. He was also naked and covered in blood, but he was getting used to that. At least it was his own blood this time.

“Not bad,” Grantaire answered, his voice still raspy and strained. He was, of course, lying through his gritted teeth. The pain was incredible, it seemed like there wasn’t a place on his body that wasn’t shrieking out in pain. But hey at least he wasn’t impaled on a spike anymore. 

Combeferre made a face that suggested he didn’t believe Grantaire’s lie. This notion was backed up by the cup of tea he thrust into Grantaire’s shaking hands. As soon as he took a sip a wonderful warm numbness spread through him. 

“Where am I?” He questioned of his nurse. He had quite a few other questions, but it was safer to ascertain his whereabouts first, before asking why he was still alive. 

“In a moment,” Combeferre said calmly, raising a hand to stay further commentary. “I should go alert the others.”

Here it came, then, Grantaire thought in dismay, watching Combeferre’s exit. Here came the pronouncement of his evil deeds. A sick shudder went through he realized that the only reason they’d need him alive was to make his death public. He thought back to Eponine’s talk of burning and quartering and set down his tea cup. The soothing liquid had turned to acid in this mouth. 

Enjolras was the first through the door, followed by Combeferre and Jehan. They stood at the foot of his bed, staring at him with opaque expressions on their faces. 

“So you know what I am now,” Grantaire said, staring boldly into their faces. His gaze dipped only once, to the revolver holstered and Enjolras’ hip.

“Yes,” Enjolras replied steadily, meeting his gaze resolutely. “We know.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jehan asked, moving forward only to be caught by Enjolras gripping his upper arm. Jehan snatched his arm free and pushed forward to sit at Grantaire’s bedside.

“Why, so you could kill me faster?” 

“So no one would get hurt,” enjolras looks angry now. Good. Let him be angry, Grantaire was angry too, and sick of fighting against his anger. “Did you think about that? When you were running around trying to befriend us to what, throw us off your trail? We are here to stop you from hurting anyone else.”

“I never asked to like you!” Grantaire protested, inadvertently rattling his chains as he brought his hands to his face. “It isn’t my fault that your friends are charming and lovely people, or that they’re friendly to strangers.”

“So now you’re blaming us for this, when we are just here to-”  
“Both of you stop it right now,” Jehan snapped, glaring back and forth between the bickering pair. Enjolras scowled but shut up, apparently content to give up on his poor attempt at bedside manner. “Grantaire, you have to understand, we were never going to kill you.”

“What he means,” Combeferre cleared his throat, “Is that we specialize in a very particular kind of rehabilitation. You are not the only individual in this world to be cursed, nor even the first to be cursed with lycanthropy. Les Amis are Cursebreakers. We have in our number a few talented magicians, including Jehan here, who work together to lift curses. The rest of us join to assist them in any way possible.” 

Grantaire paused. He never stopped to consider an alternative to death for himself. He never envisioned an end to the curse that did not also result in an end to his life. But, he supposed, if a curse can be placed, it can be removed as well.

“The guns are for show, mostly,” Jehan continued, tucking a lock of red hair behind his ear. “We are known primarily as hunters because most curses manifest violently. We want to help you, Aire. If you’re willing, we’ll take you back with us to our home and we can work on lifting the curse.”

“I’d have to leave?” Grantaire asked, his voice small. That was another possibility he’d pushed from his mind, content to die in this village he loved. 

“You can’t stay here,” Jehan said gently. “You know that, deep down. If you stay here, you’ll just end up hurting more of those you love, just like you hurt Eponine.” That jolted Grantaire, he’d forgotten Eponine, about the attack and the bite and all of it.

“Eponine,” he started, “I can’t just leave her. When I attacked her that night I bit her. What if she ends up like me?”

“Jehan has taken care of that already,” Enjolras voiced from where he still stood, arms crossed, at the foot of the bed. 

“Even though the curse had already been transferred, it takes until the next full moon to take effect. I was able to break it handily enough,” Jehan ducked his head modestly and Grantaire found himself smiling at the other man. Jehan tipped his chin back up and their eyes locked. Grantaire could only hope that their look showed the depth of gratitude he felt for the redhead.

“Alright, so, say I go with you. What happens if I transform again on the road?” 

“As if we couldn’t take you,” Enjolras snorted his disdain from across the room at the same time as Combeferre said, “You’re in no condition to travel.”

“The cuffs you have on have a major suppression charm,” Jehan explained, tapping one finger to the strange symbols carved in the metal. At his touch, they lit with a pale purple glow. “You won’t be able to transform with them on.”

“I guess that only leaves one question then,” Grantaire admitted, still staring at the lit sigils.

“Yes?” Combeferre prompted.

“When do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought it was going to be over (and so did I!) but this fic has a life of its own)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis (+ Grantaire) on the road!

They travelled for four days before they reached a stretch of countryside that made Courfeyrac cheerfully proclaim that they were almost there. Of course, to Grantaire that particular stretch of countryside was nearly identical to the last forty miles worth of countryside. But he didn’t say anything. Two days ago, he had realized that he was completely at their mercy, and that had made him much more circumspect about his complaints. 

At this point he was fairly certain they weren’t going to kill him, but that didn’t make him feel less vulnerable. He had never been outside of Gévaudan, so he was in unfamiliar terrain, surrounded by people he’d known for less than a month, who up until four days ago he believed were intent on killing him. It didn’t help that he still wore the curse-suppressing cuffs around his wrists and ankles (thankfully the chain between his feet had been removed to make sitting astride a horse easier) so if he did decide to make break for it, most people would assume he was some kind of criminal on the loose. 

He had already garnered a fair amount of wary glances from fellow travellers passing them on the road, despite his friendly smiles. They took one look at the his cuts, bruises, and bound hands and he gained their disdain. Then they took another look at the heavily armed men surrounding him and he gained their distrust. Oh well, he wasn’t on this trip to make friends, he was there to get a curse lifted.

Jehan proved to be a stellar travel companion. His conversation was interesting and witty; by the time they reached their destination Grantaire was somewhat of an amateur expert on plants used for Cursebreaking as well as Norse poetry. And whenever Grantaire’s dark moods threatened to overcome him, Jehan was there with a jest to lighten his thoughts. 

Courfeyrac, too was a source of merriment on what would have otherwise been a dull trip. He possessed an easy openness that made him instantly likable. Combeferre was quieter and more reserved, but Grantaire found a certain dark humor in him whenever they spoke, or when Combeferre checked on his injuries that ultimately won Grantaire over.

Enjolras was another story altogether. He always rode ahead of the group, usually accompanied by Combeferre or Courfeyrac. He rode well, but without the ease of someone who’d grown up around horses. According to Courfeyrac, he, Enjolras, and Combeferre grew up together in Paris, but when pressed for more details on Enjolras, Courfeyrac was quick to admit that it wasn’t his place. So Enjolras, more so than any of the other hunters, was a complete mystery to Grantaire.

And not just his past, but his behavior as well. He was aloof, and seemed to avoid Grantaire on principle, but sometimes would meet Grantaire’s eyes and stare intently, as if he could see through to Grantaire’s very soul. He few times he did manage to hold conversations with Enjolras, his speech was courteous but clipped, engaging no further than was necessary to end the conversation. 

In any case, it was a relief when they finally stopped and dismounted. Grantaire looked around, puzzled. There were no buildings of any sort in sight, but his guides seemed sure of their way as the led their horses into the forest surrounding the road. When Grantaire followed them, Combeferre bringing up the rear, he say a narrow path cut through the underbrush, just wide enough for a man and a horse to walk abreast. 

Grantaire soon found that the way was sloping gently upwards, and he had to wonder again, at the location of this house. Part of him wondered if it even existed. After all, here, off the main road and with nobody around would be the perfect place to dispose of a someone. He shook his head to clear out those foreboding thoughts and soon, their walk was over almost as swiftly as it had begun. They broke through the cover of trees, their branches giving way to clear sky and a verdant meadow.

“Come on, Aire,” Jehan called brightly as he lagged to take in the stunning view in front of him. The incline of the hill crested in the center of the meadow, tall grasses sweeping in time to the breeze. Atop the hill, a large chateau covered in creeping vines sat, elegantly presiding over the meadow flowers. It was a sprawling stone and brick affair, with several smaller buildings close to the main house.

Three figures emerged from the house. One lifted a hand in greeting. As Grantaire drew closer, he saw it was two men and a woman. The first man was tall, with broad shoulders and a build that suggested frequent and strenuous hard work. He was dressed comfortably in loose homespun breeches and a vest stretched over his admirable chest. The second man was dressed in only his shirtsleeves, dark suspenders supporting sensible trousers. His skin was a few shades lighter than the first man’s but completely covered in freckles. The woman was the fairest of the three, with porcelain skin and a tumble of long golden hair, dressed in a simple blue shift. 

“You’re back!” she exclaimed, stepping forward to embrace Enjolras. They could have been twins, for their fair looks and shared beauty. Actually, Grantaire wasn’t sure that they weren’t twins, seeing them standing beside each other, smiling and chatting to each other. Grantaire had never seen anyone smile as radiantly as Enjolras did. Bitterly, he wondered what these two were to each other if they weren’t siblings. Lovers, maybe. For all he knew she was his wife and they had multiple beautiful blonde babies running around the countryside.

“Shit, someone really did a number on you,” someone said matter-of-factly. The taller man had paused, regarding Grantaire appraisingly.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked, dragging his gaze away from Enjolras.

“You’re practically soaked in dark energy,” Great, Grantaire thought, “Whoever put that curse on you must really not have liked you, any idea of who you pissed off?” 

“No, I have no idea,” Grantaire said tersely, before coming to his senses “I’m Grantaire by the way, Jehan said you might be able to help me?” 

“Well, we can certainly try,” the large man stepped forward, clasping Grantaire’s arm in greeting. “I’m Bahorel.”

“And I’m Feuilly,” the second man acknowledged, coming to stand by Bahorel. “May I ask how it manifests?”

“I turn into a beast and kill people,” Grantaire said bluntly. Other than Feuilly’s eyebrows rising, neither man gave any indication of surprise. 

“You’re not the first to do so,” Feuilly explained kindly, “And I doubt you’ll be the last. That particular curse is common enough, most midlevel warlocks can perform it. You turn every full moon?”

“Yes, well. That’s how it started, now it is more frequent, sometime around every six days when I’m not wearing these,” he lifts his hands up to show them the manacles still clamped around his wrists. 

“That’s odd… Usually the curse is tied to the power of the moon, it makes it easier to cast,” Bahorel said, rubbing at his beard. “Well we’ll think about it, between the four of us, we should be able to take care of you.” 

“The four of you? I thought there was only you two and Jehan?” Grantaire asked, looking between the two men.

“The three of us and Cosette,” Bahorel commented, nodding his head in the direction of the blonde woman. “She’s the real power behind our setup. Feu and I can do midlevel stuff, and Jehan is more advanced than either of us, but Cosette is leaps and bounds ahead of us, power-wise. She is incredible, just wait until you see her in action.” 

“In action? You mean breaking curses and the like?”

“And the like, yes. We sell charms and offer healing to make ends meet, and to finance our noble quest to rid France of dark magic.”

“That’s what we do,” Feuilly interjected. 

“Well,” Grantaire said, “Then it looks like I’ve come to the right place.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang figures shit out

“So how does this work?” Grantaire asked, twiddling a piece of straw between his fingers. He was sitting on an overturned crate, watching as Jehan and Feuilly frowned over the pages of a leather-bound journal. After their arrival last night, Grantaire had hoped for maybe a day of rest before diving into what sounded like a great amount of magical experimentation. Instead, he got Courfeyrac cheerfully rousing him as soon as the sun broke over the horizon.

“Cursebreaking?” it was Bahorel who replied. He was crouched next to Grantaire going through a small box of herbs, sorting them based on some criteria that evaded Grantaire. “It depends on the curse really, on whatever the caster used as a focus point for the spell. And on whichever one of us is casting the countercurse. We each haveo ur different spells, and those serve us well for different types of foci. Jehan works with the properties of plants, for instance. Feuilly relies on the written word, and I use stones and runes.”

“And Cosette?” He bent to pick up several strands of straw from the ground to begin weaving them together.

“Oh, she uses pure emotional instinct,” Bahorel grinned, standing with an armful of dried plants. “That’s the only way I can think to describe it, working with her is like working with the sun, she shines, you know? She shines the curse right out of someone.”

“Then why isn’t she here, shouldn’t that be the first thing we try?” Grantaire fought to keep the edge from his voice. From the look on Bahorel’s face, he didn’t do a very good job. 

“She’s a naturally gifted witch, but there are a lot of caveats that come with that. She’s the best healer among us for physical ailments, but her method of Cursebreaking is,” the taller man paused, struggling for the right words. “Brutal, in many ways. She is usually the last person to try just because all that power is hard to handle. It takes a lot out of her, and in most cases, a lot out of the person she’s trying to heal. Most times she is able to lift the curse without any trouble, but sometimes there are...consequences for the cursed.”

“Like what?” Grantaire demanded. Bahorel just looked at him. It was the kind of look that suggested ‘you really do not want to know’ but Grantaire was not the sort to heed those looks. If Cosette was going to work on lifting his curse, he damned well wanted to know what these consequences were, and he said as much to Bahorel. 

“Look, it doesn’t happen often,” Bahorel sighed, looking down at the herbs in his arms and stoutly refusing to meet Grantaire’s eyes. “But sometimes the curse will get worse instead of better. Or there’s some sort of ironic twist that haunts the cursed person. Indefinitely.” 

“It could get worse?” Grantaire felt his stomach turn sour. As if his current situation wasn’t bad enough. He couldn’t imagine a situation where the curse would be worse than it already was. Except… If it got worse… the only thing worse he could imagine was being stuck as that beast all the time, of being unable to revert back to human, of being stuck as an animal whose only thought was to hunt and kill. Grantaire shuddered, his shoulders slumping.

“It doesn’t happen often,” Jehan piped up. Grantaire hadn’t noticed but Feuilly and Jehan had paused their conference to watch their interaction with worried eyes. “It really doesn’t. And most of the times we can fix it without Cosette having to try. There’s a chance she won’t even have to get involved unless she’s lending power.”

Grantaire nods, but his heart is racing, and his head is heavy with dark thoughts. The taste of blood in his mouth, the rending of flesh beneath his teeth. He would be stuck like that. Indefinitely. He shook his head, trying to clear away his reservations. If he didn’t let them try, it would get worse anyway. He had to try, for Eponine’s sake. And Joly, and Bossuet, and Musichetta’s sakes. For his home, and for the hope that he could return one day. 

“Lets get started, then. And if Cosette has to try, then I’ll accept any risk that goes along with it.”

\- - -

As soon as Grantaire woke up, he knew he’d turn tonight. Jehan had removed the suppressant cuffs a few days ago, out of fear that they’d interfere with the carefully-woven countercurse and Grantaire had been dreading a shift ever since. He’d been with them for at least a week new, and it was only a matter of time before he changed. They’d established the cellar of the large house as the go-to place to contain him in case he turns. Grantaire didn’t want to know why but it was already fitted with a cell and manacles. He supposed it was a necessary precaution for people in their line of work. 

He didn’t know what had prompted the lack of warning that accompanied his last changed, but now all the signs were there. The too-tight feeling of his skin, the ache in his bones, the subtle threat of bile waiting at the back of his throat. He knew it would happen tonight. He found enjolras when he was still at the breakfast table, a cup of coffee cradled in one hand while the other held his place in a book. He looked up as Grantaire entered and poured himself a cup of the coffee. 

“I need your help,” he said plainly, meeting Enjolras’ steely gaze. “The change is coming. I don’t know when, but it is coming and I need your help.”

“What do you need me to do?” Enjolras asked, watching as Grantaire knocked back his coffee. 

“Stay with me when I turn. If it even looks like I might make it out of that cell, I want you to kill me.” He paused, staring down at the empty mug clasped in his hands. Enjolras stared at him, his book entirely forgotten.

“But the they’ve been working on the counter curse, it might not even - “

“No. Nothing has worked so far, I know it. I know it is going to happen, and that is going to happen today. I won’t kill anybody else. Your friends are good people, good honest people who want to help no matter the danger to themselves. I could never live with myself if I killed one of your friends.”

“They’re your friends too,” Enjolras cut in, catching Grantaire’s dark eyes with his own. “Can’t you see that, after everything, they’re your friends too.”

“I know,” Grantaire looked away from those bright blue eyes, shining with so much belief that it hurt. “And that’s exactly why I can’t live knowing I hurt one of them. Please, just promise me that you’ll stand watch tonight. And that your gun will be ready, just in case.” 

“Of course,” Enjolras’ face was solemn, but resolute. He would be there tonight, for his friend’s sake. Grantaire stood, turning to leave when the blonde called out to him again. “I know we haven’t gotten along in the past, but you’re a good man, Grantaire.”

Grantaire paused. He was many things, but a good man was not one of them. Who was this man, this blonde-haired hero, this god among men, to tell him he was a good man?

“You may not believe it,” Enjolras continued, “But you are a good and honest man who is dedicated to his friends. I’ll still stand tonight, with my pistol ready, but know that I do it for your sake as much as my friends’. Because you have my respect, and my admiration.”

Grantaire tried to think of a response, but his mind came up blank. It was all he could do to nod, his mouth not even managing a smile before he turned and fled from the strange intensity radiating from Enjolras. 

\- - -

Grantaire bid goodbye to Jehan with a heavy heart. He’d already said his goodbyes to the others, trying to keep levity in his tone as he wished them a peaceful night. They had chuckled at his joke, smiles never straying from their faces. They had very confidence he would survive the night. 

Jehan was another case altogether. He had faith in Grantaire, but he had also seen the way Enjolras hung back as they chained him to the far wall of the cell. The way Jehan looked at him as he left broke Grantaire’s heart. Jehan knew why Enjolras hung back. He knew why he waited in the cellar, one hand on his gun.

Grantaire tried to remain cheerful as he hugged his new friend,wishing him the best, but the look on Jehan’s face left him feeling disconsolate. Enjolras tried to keep up conversation as the two of them sat on either side of the iron bars, waiting for the transformation to take hold, but soon fell quiet. Any conversation of home was stained by half-forgotten memories of blood and any talk of the present led back to Enjolras’ finger on the trigger of a gun.

Eventually Grantaire felt the beast stirring in the pit of his stomach. It was time. 

\- - -

Grantaire woke huddled in one corner of the cell, naked and shivering against the tall bars of the cell. The manacles that had started the night clamped around his wrists were lying in pieces around him, their chains a tangled mess of twisted metal. His knuckles and knees were stained dark purple with bruises, scratches running red over the tender skin. His head hurt, and tentative exploration with his fingers found a large lump swelling just above his left temple. 

For the first time since waking, he looked up, out of the cell. Enjolras was still sitting upright in a chair, but his eyes were closed in sleep. He looked like an angel in repose, even despite the scowl set on his sleeping face, and the way he clutched his rifle to his gun to his chest like it was a lifeline.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire croaked, throat raw from last night’s abuse. “Come let me out of this damn thing.” Enjolras jerked awake, bolting to his feet and drawing his gun up level even as his eyes fluttered sleepily.

“Whoa there soldier, it is just me again,” Grantaire joked, pushing himself to his feet. For a second he imagined that Enjolras’ gaze darted down, taking in his naked body, but he blamed the head wound for that. A scarlet blush perched high on Enjolras’ cheekbones, no doubt at being caught asleep at the job.

“I was awake,” Enjolras protested, lowering his gun. He quickly crossed to unlock the door. After an awkward moment Grantaire standing there, eyebrows raised, he shoved a bundle of clothes at him before spinning on his heel and facing the other way as Grantaire dressed.   
It was cute, Grantaire thought, he was trying to protect Grantaire’s modesty. As if he and any left at this point. Nevertheless, as Grantaire struggled to make his fingers remember how to do up buttons, Enjolras kept his back resolutely turned away, gently rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“I suppose I have you to thank for this lump?” Grantaire asked, pulling up a pair of trousers.

“You had just broken the manacles,” Enjolras said, still facing away. “You were angry, flinging yourself at the walls, scratching at the bars, I thought you would hurt yourself.” Or get out, remained unspoken between them. 

“So you decided to hurt me instead?” Grantaire bit back.

“That wasn’t what I meant, I didn’t mean to,” Enjolras said in a rush, shoulders tightening.

“I know, it was a joke,” Grantaire said, walking forward to rest a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. The blond man turned, the pair of them standing less than an arms distance away, brought closer by Grantaire’s touch still resting on his shoulder. “A poor joke, given your help. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Enjolras whispered, meeting Grantaire’s solemn gaze. Then he cracked a smile and it felt like the gates of heaven had opened into this dingy cellar room and the light of God shone down on them. “I suppose we should get some breakfast?”

“I’m famished,” Grantaire conceded, smiling in return. 

\- - -

“Do you know how you got cursed in the first place?” Cosette asked, blowing on the surface of her tea to cool it. It was later that same day, and the lot of them were lounging around the first floor of the big house. Grantaire was currently nursing a mug of coffee, alternating sips with bites of the warm brown loaf Jehan had baked that morning. 

“Not really,” he replied, looking down at the worn wooden tabletop. There were errant knife marks and a black spots of burned wood, but otherwise the table was sturdy. It felt lived-in, the type of table that belonged in a home. “I have a few ideas, but I’m not sure.” 

“If we can figure out who cast the curse and their intention, it might make it easier to break it,” Feuilly joined in the conversation from where he stood stirring tonight’s stew at the large potbelly stove. “So anything you can think of might be useful.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly the most popular person in Gévaudan,” Grantaire started haltingly. At this point, Courf and Jehan had perked up from the divan in the adjoining room and Enjolras and Combeferre paused in their discussion of Parisian politics to listen. They weren’t subtle. “I had my fair share of people with grudges over petty fights and the like, but no one I would ever expect to take it past simple fisticuffs. That’s how the people back home are: direct and to the point. Not the sort to go behind your backs with a curse, even if they knew how to cast one.”

“There are Eponine’s parents, who might be that petty,” Grantaire pondered. “They blame me for her disobedience, they think I’m a bad influence on her, but if they knew magic, they would have used it in the past.”

“What about someone outside Gévaudan?” prompted Cosette, “Have you insulted any passing strangers recently? Spurned any lovers?” Grantaire paused for a moment, thinking back over the past year. Then he remembers last October. The curse had started just a few weeks after he left. 

“I think I know who did it,” Grantaire faltered, eyes catching Cosette’s. It had to be him, who else? He was always so mysterious, so otherworldly in his beauty and his address. If anyone would have cursed him, it would be Montparnasse. “You said motivation could be a rejected lover?”

“Yes,” Cosette frowned, “It’s actually quite common to turn to magic to get revenge on someone.”

“Then I know who it is,” Grantaire began. “His name is Montparnasse, he ran with the Thenadiers a few months before the curse began. We were...involved.”

“Involved?” Combeferre asked, eyebrows raised. And Grantaire paused, darting a look around the room. He’d gotten to know Jehan well enough to know that he too, shared his favors with men in the past, and was presently sharing them with Courfeyrac, but he had no notion of how the rest of les Amis would handle the new that he like men as well as women. He resolved himself quickly; in for a penny, in for a pound. They already knew he was a murderer, surely he couldn’t sink lower in their estimation. 

“Yes, involved as lovers. For a time we shared a bed, and what we could spare of our hearts. It ended poorly.” Grantaire was purposefully avoiding Enjolras’ gaze, which he could feel piercing him like a dozen arrows. 

“How so?” Cosette asked, then winced as Grantaire looked at her, affronted. The Last thing he wanted to do was dredge up his messy romantic past in front of these people he was learning to call friends. “Please, if we knew why he did it, it could help us.”

“In short, I couldn’t understand why he wanted to be with someone as ugly as I and wouldn’t accept that our relationship could be anything more than a dalliance. He felt otherwise, and tried to convince me of such, but I wouldn’t listen. I drove him away, told him not to waste his time on me or on a relationship that couldn’t go anywhere. He flew out of town in a dark mood and I haven’t heard from him since, just rumors of him terrorizing the capital. Then the changes started, two weeks after he left...”

“That’s it!” Cosette “It has to be him! He must have used the lasting bonds of your emotions for each other as a foci and then used the moon for power.” Grantaire shook his head, running a hand over his stubble. 

“I don’t know if our emotional bond would have been strong enough. We didn’t know each other for that long, and we had to be careful about how often we met up, for obvious reasons,” Grantaire smoothed a hand through his wild curls. He hadn’t thought about Montparnasse in ages. In fact, he’d tried to forget the unfortunate end to their encounters as thoroughly as he could, through drink and the beds of pretty locals. 

“Wait,” Feuilly paused his soup-stirring. “What if he didn’t use the feelings you had for each other, but instead used Aire’s feelings toward himself. That way it would be a closed circuit feedback loop, and wouldn’t necessitate and output of energy from Montparnasse.”

“That would make sense,” Jehan said, frowning in concentration. “Grantaire, you said part of the reason you ended it was poor self-esteem? Of you not thinking you’re beautiful or worthy of love.”

“Well,” Grantaire hedged, suddenly acutely aware of Enjolras’ presence. “Yes, I suppose you could put it like that…”

“That’s the foci!” Jehan exclaimed springing up from his place on the couch. “Grantaire, its your own self hatred that’s fueling the spell.”

“That explains why the curse was getting worse,” Cosette explained, “The more guilt and remorse Grantaire feels, the more frequent the transformations.” Silence falls in the room as they all turned to look at Grantaire, who stared blankly back. 

Well shit, that explained a lot.


	7. Chapter 7

“Does this mean that Aire just has to feel better about himself to break the curse?” Bahorel asked from where he leaned against the wall by the stove. Feuilly had stopped stirring manually, and now the spoon spun around the pot of its own accord. 

“No, it’s likely that we’ll still need to help,” Jehan said. “At least to root out the heart of the spell and detach it from the power source.”

“But it’s an emotional foci, so I will probably have to be at the helm. Are you still okay with that, Grantaire?” Cosette was looking at him seriously, tugging nervously at the sleeves of her dress.

“Yes,” Grantaire nodded his head in assent, locking eyes with Cosette, who nodded in return. “If it means getting free of this curse, yes.” 

“Well, there is no time like the present,” Cosette stood, sweeping her blonde hair up from about her face and tying it at the nape of her neck. “Shall we?” 

Grantaire followed her as she led them out of the house to the courtyard stretching between two buildings. The others followed suit, save for Jehan, and Bahorel, forming a loose ring around Cosette and Grantaire. Enjolras caught Grantaire’s eyes and gave him a solemn nod, hand twitching towards his belt. If this went wrong, Enjolras would take care of it. 

“Are you ready?” Cosette asked, moving closer towards him. Feuilly was drawing a large circle around them, tracing in chalk muttering as he went. Bahorel emerged from the house with burlap sack in his arms with Jehan following close behind, plant clippings in hand. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Grantaire mustered a smile, but her face remained grim, creases of worry marring her pale brow. Feuilly waited to close the circle as Jehan skipped inside to hand Cosette half of the herbs, and placing the rest in Grantaire’s palm. 

“Agrimony,” he said, “It’ll help ease the curse out, and protect from any magical backlash.” Cosette had already tucked the wad of leaves into her cheek and was chewing thoughtfully, so Grantaire followed suit. Jehan gave his a quick peck on the cheek and darted out of the circle.

As he chewed, Grantaire watched as Feuilly finished the circle in chalk, and Bahorel began to trace over the line in coarse salt poured from his bag. Grantaire inched closer, leaning to whisper in Cosette’s ear, “If this doesn’t go as planned, it isn’t your fault. This is what I want.”

“Okay,” she whispered back, her voice small. He could tell she didn’t believe him, that if this went wrong, she would carry it with her always. But he wasn’t about to argue, they both knew the risks. 

She reached up, placing her hands on either side of his stubbled face. She took a deep breath, drawing air in through her nose and releasing it out through her mouth. Grantaire watched as a glow lit within her chest, just below her sternum. It was yellowish white, shining effervescent through her skin. It lit brighter, surging up through her shoulders, down into her arms, flowing towards the point where her hands met his face.

Cosette let out a deep breath, guiding the light from her fingertips into Grantaire’s temples. Instantly the dull throbbing from where Enjolras had bludgeoned him faded, and he felt an incredible energy course through him. His eyes fluttered shut. He wanted to run, to leap and bound, wanted to dance and scream up at the night sky and laugh. He remembered Bahorel saying how Cosette’s power was like the sun. Bahorel was right. She was radiance and warmth and light all together, flowing through him like a soft summer breeze. But she was also brutal.

Icarus flying too close to the sun found out how dangerous it could be. Grantaire felt like Icarus then, too close to the sun’s power, her rays piercing through him as if he were a cloud bank. Grantaire could feel Cosette rifling through his emotions like a child with a chest of toys, examining each one before tossing it aside. As she did so, Grantaire was hit by each emotion in quick succession, getting slammed with joy, then regret, then utter heart-wrenching sadness.

She found what she was looking for eventually, just as he thought he couldn’t stand another moment of her sweet torture. She tugged at something inside of him, something small and ugly lodged under his heart, wrenching it out to examine it. She prodded at it carefully, turning it too and fro. She cracked it open, found it’s black core, shot through with threads of red. It was only when she tugged at the threads that the pain started, stinging needling pain starting deep in his bones. It felt like he was about to change and he fought against it, kicking and screaming against the change.

She fought alongside him, holding on tight as his mind tried to buck and throw her. It felt like she was searching for something even as she fought to hold on. Suddenly he was hit with complete and utter peacefulness. He felt his heart slow, tapping out a mellow rhythm against his ribcage. He still felt the pain flickering through his bones, but it was far-off and easy to ignore.

Cosette eased her sunbeams back into his head, surrounding the pitiful lump lanced with red and pulled the red free. Then she crushed it in her fist, compacting it in her hand. Grantaire screamed, he knows he did, and that was when he came back to his body. 

At some point he and Cosette had sunk to their knees, still locked together in an embrace. Grantaire felt tears soaking his cheeks, and both their chests were heaving with the effort to breathe. He raised his eyes to meet hers and she smiled, sunbeams hiding behind her teeth. When he smiled back, there was something feral hiding behind his.

“You should have this,” Cosette said, pressing a little red pebble into his palm. Grantaire turned it over in his hand. It was the same color as the thread that had wound through him in his their vision, and the coils of the thread still showed on the surface of the stone. “It won’t do anything to you now, but you should keep it, as a reminder.” 

“Thank you,” he said haltingly, unsure of whether he wanted a memento of this ordeal. 

“Its best to keep such things away from those that would do you harm,” she added. “Bahorel can turn it into a bead, if you’d like.” He nodded and they helped each other to their feet. Cosette leaned heavily on Grantaire as they hobbled towards the circle’s edge. Bahorel, and then Feuilly broke their circles, allowing them to exit safely.  
“That was the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Courf exclaims, his eyes as wide as saucers. “I’ve seen Cosette work on curses before, I was expecting the crying and the laughing but that was something else entirely.”

“When you started screaming, I near jumped out of my skin,” Bahorel told Grantaire, pulling him into a rough hug. “The way you twisted and jerked around, I thought Cosette would lose her grip of you’d be lost.”

“It looked,” Combeferre concurred thoughtfully, “like there was something trying to rip its way out of you. I saw it in Cosette as well.” Grantaire turned to the blonde woman still leaning on his arm, concern peaking his brows. 

“You felt it too, the change?” he asked, suddenly mortified that she would have to feel that shameful torment. 

“Yes, I felt it. It was horrible and I hope to never have to feel anything like that ever again,” she said. “That was what it feels like when you change?” He nods, disliking the look that blooms in her bright blue eyes. It was too close to pity to be comfortable. She gathered him into another hug, wrapping her arms around his neck, before releasing him. 

“I need to go lie down,” she announced, and Grantaire suddenly felt a similar urge overwhelm him. He nodded, and they both retired to seek their beds, even if it was just past noon.

\- - -

That night they celebrate. 

While Cosette and Grantaire slept, the rest of les Amis were cooking, cleaning and festooning the house in all manner of decorations. The freshly swept and washed courtyard was surrounded by lit lanterns, two long tables set out and decked with food and drink. At some point in the night, Feuilly pulls out a fiddle and plays a rousing tune that had Bahorel and Courfeyrac singing out in unison. They dance under the stars and laugh and sing. 

Later, once they’ve sufficiently tired themselves out, Jehan rises to sing. Jehan stood alone on an upturned barrel and sang a slow, mournful song, his throat a pale column of light craned back against the dark night sky. Courf sat before him, staring up at him like a man in a trance. There was hope in his eyes, despite the darkness, and the sad sway of Jehan’s words. 

Combeferre talked softly to Feuilly over mugs of ale, while a nearby Bahorel played with Cosette’s long tresses. And Enjolras was at Grantaire’s elbow, two mugs of ale in hand. The blond sat next to Grantaire, placing one mug in front of him. 

“How are you feeling,” Enjolras asked tentatively and Grantaire had to raise his eyebrows in shock. It was the first time they’d spoken since that morning, and that morning seems like a lifetime ago. 

“Better for having slept,” he replied, still dumbfounded by Enjolras’ approach. “I wanted to thank you for what you were ready to do, for being ready to protect them at all costs.” Enjolras looked at him, his dark blue eyes boring into him. Grantaire wanted to look away, to diffuse the tension with a joke of some sort, but he didn’t.

“Why do you think I agreed to do it?” Enjolras asked, not looking away from Grantaire’s face.

“To protect your friends?” Grantaire hazarded, feeling like an animal led into a trap. “To protect les Amis, and the people of France?”

“You think I wouldn’t do it for you? Because I was respecting what you wanted? Because you’re my friend?” Grantaire was floored. He didn’t think that Enjolras thought of him as anything other than a threat, let alone a friend.

“It had never occurred to me that you thought of me as a friend,” Grantaire started, but Enjolras cut him off with a shake of his curls and a stiff glare. He never thought he had a chance at anything with Enjolras. 

“This is why you got cursed, Grantaire,” Enjolras’ frustration was clear in his voice, and in the impossibly perfect crease in his forehead. “You’re so unwilling to let people in, to give people a chance at knowing you. You’re too scared to open your heart because you’re afraid of getting hurt that you wall yourself off from the world. And if you keep doing it you’re going to get cursed again-”

Grantaire closed the distance between them to cut him off with a kiss. He pulled back immediately, already apologizing, but it was too late, the damage was done, he’d kissed Enjolras and now Enjolras probably hated him and was going to - kiss him back?

Enjolras was pressed close, and Grantaire could smell the golden scent of his hair, and taste the ale on his lips as they kissed. Someone behind them whooped, but Grantaire didn’t care. All he cared about was Enjolras in his arms kissing him back. 

Eventually they parted for air and Grantaire couldn’t help the happy grin that lit his face. Enjolras was flushed bright pink from the heat of their embrace, and from the chorus of catcalls and witty remarks their friends were making behind them. 

“It never occured to me because I couldn’t understand why someone as perfect as you would want to befriend someone like me, let alone be with me,” Grantaire spoke softly, raising a finger to shush the protest he already knew was coming. “But you’re right, that is exactly how I got cursed. I’m not going to make the same mistake again, if you’ll have me.” 

“I will,” Enjolras was smiling, his eyes bright with hints of tears. They kissed again beneath the twinkling lights of the stars, and Grantaire’s heart sang out joyfully.


End file.
